


the secondary christmas

by whispered



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ageplay, Christmas, Established Relationship, Fireplaces and Stories and Telly, Infantilism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered/pseuds/whispered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could be easier, all of this, but nothing is easy when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. They have to take the long and hard path with this. Sherlock will not do anything that seems absurd, so there have not been nights in cribs or sitting in John's lap as it's just too awkward and wrong. But there are times when Sherlock clings onto John's sweater and lets himself go into this world, secretly and safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the secondary christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> A Christmas Gift fic for scatteredscript. I was supposed to write something ageplay-versed in my last piece for her but that went to flames so I tried again. It is hard for me to write such a thing, as I turn flush red and nervous, but thank you for inspiring me.
> 
> Editted by Selena. Thank you again.

It's cold tonight, as it ought to be. It's Christmas late in the evening and 221B is just the same, just as it should be. The flat is decorated from head to toe, no thanks to the consulting detective immersed in the warmth cast by the fireplace, and everything that made 221B home.  There is a tree, tiny one at that, but decorated in fairy lights and a star dazzled right at the top. It's probably not the most beautiful thing to ever grace London, but deep down somewhere forbidden in that consulting detective's mind, it's just fine - it's more than fine actually.  
  
The flat is cluttered full of plates from Christmas lunch and then the leftover, supper. There is tinsel and gift wrappings ("Really, John, must we exchange gifts?") and empty glasses that were once filled with wine (both red and white) and whiskey and scotch. The background caters to something more sophisticated, a tune of The First Noel set on the music player. Both men sit in their own chairs - Sherlock in his casual attire, a set of pajamas and one of John's old sweaters (just because it is a little nippy in the flat) and John bundled in his own pajamas but layered with thermals and a scarf safely tucked about his neck. They've nowhere to go nor anyone to see, but they're fine with all of that.  
  
The fireplace is going, though not roaring as once before. It's dimly lit, just like the music; and both sets of eyes are hazy, layered with a mask of alcohol and sleepiness. It's their first Christmas together and while it's something special, it's really not, because it's always been that - just them in this setting, regardless of the day.  
  
It's still rather new to Sherlock, but he's learning to manhandle his way around how to treat a relationship and John has acquired a degree in patience, because, well, it's the foundation of being in a relationship with this consulting detective. They're both happy and that's good enough for the both of them to keep moving along.  
  
It's three hours to midnight soon enough and Sherlock finds the ability to move to the floor, his back to John's chair with John's legs dangled on either side of him. There is a second personality that is ready to come out, tip-toeing around the edges that only the both of them know about. It's been waiting all day, really; and there's still two presents under the tree for that particular personality but it has to be on Sherlock's own terms. John's tried to press for it in the past, to scope out that small, fragile little boy with wide eyes and parted lips, but he's shy and while he's not damaged or anything, he simply has to carve his own path to the starting line.  
  
John runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, noting the fact it needs a trimming and lets his pinky run down Sherlock's jawline. He's satisfied here, and he's ready too - ready for that little boy to come out and have a Christmas too.  
  
Sherlock looks up and John sees it - that perfectly still face where the genius is stored away in the back of his mind for later use. Instead, he is presented with the little boy who knows far too little Christmases past and the one who is ready and willing and open to trusting John, and John alone. It makes John smile and he leans down and kisses Sherlock's forehead. He's smart enough to know when it is time. "Hello there," John says, lips pressed to the consulting detective's brow.  
  
Sherlock doesn't say anything, still too shy and in need of beckoning by the doctor. John cannot deny Sherlock this and smiles against his brows before reaching out to the one he cares for quite a bit. "I'm here, Sherlock."  
  
John sees as Sherlock's tongue snakes out and traces his upper lip and there, there it really is. It's Sherlock unfolding and allowing John in - allowing John to have a few hours to see the person Sherlock really is. It's not that Sherlock's ashamed of this side of him, no, he knows there are hundreds out there just like him in this sense, but he has little practice outside of time alone battling such thoughts. In the end, after a decade or so of reluctance, it dawned on him that this desire - this need - was going nowhere. He just found himself lucky that a certain doctor-turned-lover was alright with this. Was alright with him just the way he is.  
  
Sherlock turns one hundred and eighty degrees and presses his forehead to John's right knee while John continues to pet through the curly hair of the opposite. It's never been easy, this, nor will it ever be. John knows that what he is doing is helping - knows that this is what Sherlock needs sometimes, on the days when not all hope is lost, but when the genius is tired and needs a break and the child inside just wants to be a pirate for a little bit more.  
  
"There are more presents for you, Sherlock."  
  
Again, Sherlock says nothing, still too shy and bashful, but he does glance under the tree where two presents stick out in blue and silver paper, decked out completely with bows and ribbon. He doesn't know what hides behind the presents but he knows they are from John and they are for him.

"Would you like to open them?"  
  
Sherlock nods and does it himself, slowly continuing to unfold into his role. He moves with his knees and hands to cross the sitting room, gathering both presents into his arms before returning to John's chair, right by the older's side. He places both presents on the floor, tucking his legs under his bottom side and placing one present in John's lap. A voice that is soft and uncertain but hopeful reaches out as he looks up at John. "For me?"  
  
"For you."  
  
It could be easier, all of this, but nothing is easy when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. They have to take the long and hard path with this. Sherlock will not do anything that seems absurd, so there have not been nights in cribs or sitting in John's lap as it's just too awkward and wrong. But there are times when Sherlock clings onto John's sweater and lets himself go into this world, secretly and safe.  
  
The wrapper is undone and John just watches on as Sherlock discovers the first of two presents. It's a new block set, with a letter of the alphabet on the front of each block. Sherlock can't help but grin up at John - this being something he's wanted. He has lego's and other blocks, but these are different because he can stack them and spell out things - spell out anything really. He thinks of organizing the letters to spell astronomy and chemistry and stars and pirates and even love, but he might save that one for a day he really needs it.  
  
"Do you like them?"  
  
"I do," Sherlock responds and sets the present on the ground before opening the second. The same wrapping is littered on the ground, John finding the mischievous bow and setting in atop Sherlock's hair when he's not looking.  
  
The second present is a set of three bottles. They'd not gone there yet, and John wasn't even sure that was a route that Sherlock wanted to go, but Sherlock had his dummy and well, John thought he'd try. Sherlock eyes the package suspiciously, and John can't quite read what the genius is thinking. Sherlock has long fingers and he's too old for bottles, literally, but he thinks that if he were in a dark room or if his head was rested in John's lap, he would not mind to nurse on one of the teats. Probably not milk, no, not at first, but some juice would be nice. It's comforting, the action of sucking, just like he does on his dummy, because he focuses on the action and not the world that haunts him in the background where his mind does not shut off. It is a place he is used to but a place he needs a break from every now and again.  
  
"I think I'd like one now, if that's alright."  
  
The words seem foreign coming from Sherlock's mouth, not that they fall with pause of disgrace - just different and unusual, especially from the hearing end of John. They're not there yet, completely delved into play. It takes time and patience and John's ready and waiting with all of that. He nods and leans over first, unwrapping the blocks from the binding so that Sherlock can play while he tends to making Sherlock a bottle. He's fine with this really, he is. He has Sherlock in all ways. The one who is a genius and chases criminals through London. The one that curves his body against the doctor and welcomes him inside as they make love. The one who complains and whines and is constantly bored to death until a decent case greets them like heaven. The one that's had a not too bad childhood and simply wants a little more of because, well, it's nice and all of that.  
  
When John is in the kitchen, Sherlock lies on his belly and plays with the blocks on the floor. He makes stacks and focuses on them going higher and higher, not to tip over. He spells words and takes them apart to spell more words. His thumb finds its way into his mouth and his left hand then does all the work. He's comfortable here, Christmas night in the background with the fire heating his backside. It's quiet and calm and he knows he is different and he's starting to accept that fact, even though it's taken him a very long time. When morning comes he will be the man everyone knows, but for now he is the man only John knows and as long as John is supporting him, he doesn't have to worry about anything else.  
  
John returns with the bottle in tow, as well as Sherlock's small pink blanket (of course Sherlock would favor the color pink, calling it different one day, just like him) as well as Sherlock's beaten up old teddy bear from his childhood. They'd found it one day at mummy's house, right after her death, and Sherlock tucked it underneath the folds of his jacket. It was three days later that John first kissed Sherlock and then seven weeks later that Sherlock has told John, in a quiet voice, that sometimes at night he liked to have the bear there. It took some time, to put all the puzzle pieces together, but there they were, creating a masterpiece, right in the middle of 221B's sitting room.  
  
Sherlock nurses on his bottle, held by his own hands, as John pops on the telly. How the Grinch Stole Christmas is on and it's enough to occupy the both of them. Sherlock still rests on the floor, playing with his blocks in between catching glimpses of the show while John sits in his chair, keeping an eye on the child that is allowed to play and remembering his childhood through an age-old telly show.  
  
Christmas Day is over in just an hour or so and the movie is over. John beckons Sherlock over to the sofa, leading him by his right hand, and sits first, offering enough room for Sherlock to lie down. Once Sherlock has his head in John's lap, John offers the remainder of his new bottle to the younger, which Sherlock accepts with no complaints. All of this is different from what society typically accepted, but then again, society has never really accepted Sherlock - but John has and that's enough.  
  
"You're such a good boy," John says, and it sends a shrill down Sherlock's spine.  
  
There are more things Sherlock would like to do in this role - he even, in the darkest of his days, imagines John's own room turned playroom where he could keep a bookshelf of his most favorite books and a large rug shaped like a bee where he could play with his blocks and toys and color and it would be his safest place, hidden away from the world to see.   It's not yet that these things will happen, if ever they will happen, but they exist there, in the sanity of Sherlock's mind and one day he will trust John enough to tell him about these sorts of dreams and wants he has.  
  
"John," Sherlock says, mouth wrapped around the nipple of the bottle as he suckles down the remaining juice. John pulls the bottle away and Sherlock gives a little whine, a sound he's offered before but one he only offers when he is starting to completely relax. John fishes inside Sherlock's bathrobe pocket, where he knows it is hidden, and pulls out the pink dummy and presses it to welcoming lips that take it in like it's being welcomed back home. "John."  
  
Sherlock's blanket barely covers his chest, too small and found in the toddler section of a shopping boutique, but exactly what the detective wanted at the time. His old, aged teddy bear rests underneath his arm, fingers petting the curve of it's right ear. John reaches over to the coffee table, picking up a Christmas book he'd picked out hours ago, forgotten in the midst of it all.  
  
"The Grinch hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season! Now, please don't ask why. No one knows the reason.."  
  
John's voice carries on through the flat as he reads through the book. He's animated in his words and Sherlock watches eagerly as the story goes on and on and on. This is exactly where he wants to be as Christmas Day ends. It's what he needs sometimes, not that anyone needs to know, and it's something that will never, ever change, and John will fight for that to be so. He knows of the boy hidden deep down in Sherlock and he wants nothing more than to offer that boy a chance to come out and play, as different as it is. John hasn't many ways to make Sherlock happy, but this is one of them and god help him, he'll do it to the day he does.  
  
He knows that it is silly, looking down at Sherlock decked out as a toddler who is too old for his surroundings; and that all children grow up, but god help him, not this one. Not Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
